


This Bitch of a Country

by Rave



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-10
Updated: 2011-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-14 15:59:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/150989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rave/pseuds/Rave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stevie doesn't even know about the visit until they smack into each other on the stairs during halftime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Bitch of a Country

Stevie doesn't even know about the visit until they smack into each other on the stairs during halftime. He mumbles an apology and tries to squeeze past the man in the elegant black coat: and then the man puts a hand on his arm and says, in a low familiar voice voice made adenoidal with cold, "Stevie. _Que puta de país_ , this god damned island. I am freezing my arse off. Can you move a little faster?"

Stevie gapes at him for a second. Then he says, "What?"

"This is the most miserable," Xabi says. He really looks it, too, hat yanked over his eyebrows and his mouth in a crabby upside-down U. "Why your weather has to be like this I cannot think." He shivers convulsively. Then a small, reluctant smile: "Hello, Stevie."

"You should write somebody a letter about it," Stevie says, at random. Xabi looks good, what little Stevie can see between the hat and the soft black scarf. He looks -- he looks unreal. "Jesus Christ, mate. A little warning maybe. How are you?"

"Dying," Xabi says sourly. He wipes his frost-pinked nose with the back of his glove.

"Whinging," Stevie corrects him. "It's December, you can't be surprised -- I mean how long have you known -- did you even plan for -- did you have time to pack --" He takes a little breath. "You're here for Nando, I guess? The baby and all?"

"Yes. Also I'm here for Anfield," Xabi says. His gloved hand is still heavy on Steven's arm. "I have to get back. We'll get drinks after, yes? Even if we lose. We won't lose, but even if. I will text you."

"Yeah, definitely, yeah," Stevie says. With a nod and one strong press of his fingers Xabi is gone, and Stevie is on the stairs, blinking after him.

*

The changing room is fantastic. Pepe's got "Bamboleo" on and a rose between his teeth, wearing just his underwear and a paper crown with _100_ written on it in Sharpie.

"Oh, you splendid motherfucker!" he yells when Stevie walks in, a wide delighted grin spreading over his face, "This is _my_ dressing room tonight, get the fuck out of my dressing room, you glory-thief -- look, you lot, it's Steven Gerrard, the crippled _hijo de puta_ , the second-best captain Liverpool has ever -- " and the team erupts in cheers, which Stevie defers with a little wave.

"Get dressed for fuck's sake, Reina, you're turning me on," Stevie yells back at him through cupped hands. Pepe blows a kiss, thrusts his hips out and hurls the rose to him. Stevie catches it easily and everyone cheers, again.

"We are fucking dancing later, cabron," Pepe says, pointing to him with eyes wild. "You are going to fucking dance with me, motherfuck. You are."

"Christ, no," Stevie says, edging back.

The smell of grass and soap, sage and vetiver and then in his ear someone says, "Don't worry. In five minutes he will forget."

Xabi's standing behind him, warm amber eyes crinkled in amusement.

"I made him that crown, you know," he says, nodding towards Pepe. "On the plane, from the bags to vomit into. So it has two uses, one for now and one for later."

"With the hundred on? You might have jinxed it," Stevie says.

Xabi shrugs. "I would just have saved it for later."

"You've got some weird bloody artistic hobbies, you know," Stevie says. Xabi laughs, dimples flashing as he lowers his head, the way he always does when he's embarrassed. There's a glow in Stevie's chest and stomach, burning like a swallow of scotch.

"You look good," Xabi says a little awkwardly, when he looks back up. "I mean, you look happy."

It's not what he means and Stevie knows it.

"We've won," is all Stevie says. "Let's get Pepe hammered."

*

"He says first very much Congratulations," Xabi translates into Stevie's ear. His breath is warm and beery. "Then he says, 'How does it feel to have a son,' he says, 'a beautiful boy,' and then he says, 'how will you feel when his dick gets bigger than yours.' Now he is apologizing."

"You're useful," Stevie tells him. Xabi's eyes soften. His hard-muscled thigh is pressed warmly against Stevie's own, hip to knee, and it's not an accident.

"He asked me the same thing when Jon was born," Xabi says.

"What'd you say?"

"I said I'll telephone Grecia right away, she'll be interested," Xabi says, grinning a little wickedly.

"That's _wrong_ ," Stevie says, admiringly.

"Yes," Xabi agrees. "But, then he punched me, so it came out fair."

"Nando," Pepe is practically screaming into the phone, "Nando, gordito -- that means _little fat boy_ , shitheads, ignorants, for that cute fat freckled arse he's got -- Nando they want me to speak English --" Another quick burst of Spanish. At Nando's sharp reply Pepe barks with laughter, spitting a little beer onto Glen's head. Glen smacks him, adroitly, without interrupting his conversation.

"Okay, everybody, on three, Bienvenidos Leo Torres," Pepe yells, " _el niñito_ , the future of Liverpool --" ("--y España!" comes Fernando's tinny voice from the speaker) --and he leaps up onto the bench to hold the phone higher. By the time he says "One," half the team is already shouting. There's an incomprehensible roar and clinking of glasses, and that's how they welcome Leo Torres. Pepe slides back down to the seat of the booth, laughing so hard his eyes are little squinches.

"The future of Spain," Xabi says when the noise has died a little. "But I think he is probably a British citizen if you need him here."

"He can get in line behind Lilly-Ella," Stevie says, with wry fondness. "The girl's got a dream. Co-ed champions in 2026."

"Bringing football home to England, I assume?" Xabi asks.

"No, she wants it in Kenya because of giraffes," Stevie says, feeling his cheeks go a little hot. "Giraffes are it right now."

"With Jon," Xabi says, "it's, uh, velociraptors." He makes an absurd little hooked-claw gesture with two fingers.

"Potato, potahto," Stevie says. He coughs. "Listen, I wanted to say. I'm glad you're here and all."

Xabi looks away for a moment. Then he rests the back of his hand against the back of Stevie's, their knuckles grazing, and says, "So --"

And then a voice booms from above them, "Hey, hey, hey," and it's Pepe, actually climbing across the table to drop heavily into the seat between them. Stevie risks a glance at Xabi: he's stiff, high-colored, his chest rising and falling too rapidly.

" _Pinche idiota,_ you’re going to fall," Xabi says, with a decent attempt at composure.

"Xabi, _tío_ ," Pepe says mournfully, slinging an arm around Xabi's shoulder, "listen, if you don't come back pretty soon we are going to stop missing you. All the crying all the time, I mean, the black veils, the little shrine where we are keep your pictures, it's going to stop."

"It'll never stop," Kuyt calls across the table, pulling a long face and wiping away invisible tears. "You should see us in the dressing room, every night, _Xabi, whyyy_ \--"

"Yes, that's very funny," Xabi says, stone-faced.

"Seriously," Pepe goes on, "you see Lucas out there tonight, and Meireles? Shit, Stevie, we won't need you either. Or Nando! You _maricons_ can fuck off and play house wherever, your little threesome, and I'll be captain when we win the treble." He pinches Stevie's ear then, fondly. "Nah, it's a joke. Get that leg better or I'll kill you."

"Get lost, Reina," Stevie says. Pepe kisses his temple and slides eel-like to the floor. After a second Babel -- at the other end of the booth -- yelps and springs upright: then he leans down to stare under the table. A sepulchral laugh emerges from the darkness there.

"Ah, Pepe," Xabi says, expressively.

"He really should be locked up somewhere with no sharp objects," Stevie agrees. "We were talking about something."

"Co-ed football," Xabi says, calmly. "In Kenya. I knew I liked your daughter; she's a feminista, a little radical. But what do you think the dressing rooms will be like?"

Stevie's eyes meet his. Xabi's are dark, sleepy and hot at the depths.

"Might not be so different," Stevie says, made brave with want. He pushes his knee harder into Xabi's. Xabi's spine curves at his touch, minutely, like a cat straining into the caressing hand. Oh, fuck.

"Maybe not," Xabi says, his breath coming a little faster. Under the table his fingers slip into the back of Stevie's jeans, hooked there against the cloth of his boxers and the hot skin of his lower back. The way Stevie's heartbeat hammers at that, how it picks up speed and tumbles over itself -- it's stupid, it's so fucking stupid.

"Are you very drunk?" Xabi asks quietly. His blunt fingernails scratch over Stevie's vertebrae, tracking thin lines of heat.

Stevie shakes his head, manages, "Want me to say I am? Are you?"

"No," Xabi says. "No." His hand curves around to Stevie's nearer hip, thumb brushing Stevie's belly.

"God," Stevie whispers.

"I have a room," Xabi says in a rush, "we can drive there. I -- I'm staying alone, but we don't have to. We don't have to, I just wanted to see you, even if you don't want -- that stuff doesn't matter, it's just that I --"

"Shut up," Stevie says fiercely. He presses his hand against the zipper of Xabi's jeans and Xabi jerks violently against him, catching his lip between his teeth and flushing gorgeously. That blush Stevie remembers: that blush goes everywhere.

"Go out to the car," Stevie says quietly. "My car. Go on."

"In this fucking cold," Xabi begins, a mischievous quirk teasing the corners of his mouth and his palm sliding into Stevie's underwear, and Stevie swears and fumbles in his pockets for the keys, dropping them into Xabi's other hand. "There, look, turn the goddamned heater on, you fuckin moaner, I'll be out in a minute --" and Xabi gives him that quick ache-sweet pressure that promises everything: then he's gone.

Stevie drains his beer in about half a second, which isn’t nearly as much time as he needs to waste. Then he’s just stuck at the table, antsy and half-hard, his leg vibrating insanely. There’s a clear space around him, everyone distracted for the moment. It gives him just enough time to think: _What are you doing?_

Really, what _is_ he doing? It seemed so easy with Xabi right there next to him, the heat of his skin radiating through Stevie’s shirt and his eyes alight with slow-burning promise. It was natural to be so -- to be like they were before. It was impossible not to be.

But now he’s remembering how pissed he’s been at Xabi. At how tough it was at first to get along without him, at all the excuses they had to make for his absence. At how he just keeps showing up, like that’s normal. Mr. Nice Guy, Mr. Liverpool, never mind that he plays for another team. Why doesn’t he just write it on his forehead, _Love me, love me_? Or is it, _Don’t you dare ever start to think I’m out of your system_?

“Oh captain,” someone sing-songs. It’s Pepe, naturally, one hand extended coquettishly. “You promise me a dance. I am having them put on the jukebox a little Crespo. Will be magnificent.”

“I said the opposite of that,” Stevie says, with a certain amount of panic. “The exact opposite. I said no dancing.”

“Just because you have lost your favorite partner,” Pepe says. He glances around. “Where’s that son of bitch got to? He’s sneaking out again? This is a theme for him. He never thinks anyone will notice. Well, _cabrón_ , guess what,” he adds, to the door, “ _I_ notice.”

“Calling his wife,” Stevie says.

Pepe nods. Then he sits on the table and leans in close. “Can I tell you something, Gerrard?”

“Can I stop you?” Stevie asks.

“I do miss him too,” Pepe says. His eyes are unexpectedly sharp, given the amount of tequila Stevie’s seen him down. “And oh, I was furious. I mean, you know? The bastard is a great player. The lungs of a team. When he’s playing good, we were all better. But also, it is -- it was his career, man. When Xavi retires he will be at the top of the Spanish game probably; but with Rafa he could never be sure even to make the first eleven. All I’m saying is I think you can’t take it so personally.”

“ _I’m_ taking it --?” Stevie demands, and Pepe says soothingly, “No, no. I mean all of us. But it will be okay to forgive him now, I think.”

“I’m not,” Stevie says, gaping at him. “What?”

“I mean,” Pepe says, eyebrows lifting, “we could talk about Chelsea --”

“I didn’t _go_ to fucking,” Stevie starts, outraged. Then he touches the table, pulls his hands back, sits up straighter. “Wait. Forgive -- do you think I haven’t? I’m not, I dunno, carting it _around_ , like. That’s ridiculous.”

“I think we will play better if our twelfth man no is a hole in the midfield,” Pepe says with that disconcertingly direct look. “That’s all.”

“What are you, a fortune cookie? This is fucking weird,” Stevie says. “Go drink more.”

“One quick salsa,” Pepe says cajolingly.

“Toilets, gonna be sick,” Stevie says, and scoots out.

The pub doors swing him out into the freezing night air, where the stars are surprisingly clear over the lights in the parking lot. His breath comes in little whorls of mist. Across the lot his car sits, sleek and black. The blue-white light from the dashboard is soft on Xabi’s face in the passenger seat.

When he opens the driver’s side, Xabi looks up at him. A soft swirl of whatever lah-di-dah jazz music comes from the stereo. The heater washes comfort over Stevie like a bath. One of his feet lingers on the asphalt, his right side still in the cold air.

Xabi says, “Hi.” He touches the top of Stevie’s thigh, awkwardly.

For a little time they watch each other. Then Stevie pulls his leg in, closes the door. “You’re right; it’s bleedin’ awful out there.”

Xabi nods, the tiniest hopeful lift pulling his mouth lopsided, and Stevie just, God, he’s _missed_ his stupid face and. All of it. He curls his fingers for an instant in the short fuzz at the nape of Xabi’s neck, tugging his head back a little.

“This pretentious bloody music of yours,” he says, letting go.

“Jesus, Steven, is Miles Davis,” Xabi says, with wonderful exasperation. “I play this for you so many times. I mean you are not thick or something.”

“It just sounds like noise to me, all that doodling around,” Stevie says. “Give us ‘Against All Odds’ any day --” and Xabi makes an appalled, protesting sound that makes Stevie laugh aloud and want to push him up against the seat and just, just -- so that before he knows what he’s doing he’s got his palm against the strong line of Xabi’s jaw and he’s kissing him, slowly, just to remember. 

Xabi’s mouth tastes bitter from the beer. His body's press is firm and familiar, the rough hollow at the throat, the broad shoulders. The clean, rich scent of him rises warmly from his skin. Every nerve in Stevie’s body breathes in that smell and blazes to life.

Xabi lets a little noise into Stevie’s mouth -- it might be protest -- and Stevie wrenches himself back, panting like a sprinter.

“Sorry,” he says over the sound of his own heart hammering. “That was stupid, I -- we’ll wait until -- ”

“ _Madre de dios_ , Steven,” Xabi says impatiently, and the seatbelt creaks as he pushes out of his seat to kiss Stevie again, harder and fiercer, his body straining against Stevie’s. His hands fist in the cloth of Stevie’s shirt, pulling him in tight. Stevie tries to get his coat undone so he can touch him, just get his fingertips on Xabi’s skin for an instant, that’s all he needs, just a second to blunt the edge of his hunger. The buttons are too awkward.

Xabi pulls back and his brief helpless laugh gusts against the corner of Stevie’s mouth. “How can you -- my God, don’t you know? In a heartbeat I would have been on my knees for you. In the middle of that bar, if you wanted. I didn’t care. I don’t care now.”

Christ, it’s so vivid and immediate that Stevie shudders, all the blood in his body rushing to his groin. Xabi always looked so gorgeous like that, cheeks hollowed and lower lip glistening, dragging that hot wet mouth over Stevie’s dick, tawny eyes half-drunk and almost euphoric. Sometimes he’d back Stevie into a room, push him against the wall so hard his teeth rattled and slide down to his knees, already starting to harden the instant he curled his tongue around Stevie’s dick, like he’d been thinking about sucking Stevie off all day. Like there was nothing in the world he wanted more.

Stevie pushes blindly at Xabi’s body because everyone's twenty feet away and this is insane. His fingertips sink into the soft rich material of Xabi’s coat.

“We’re driving,” he says hoarsely, fumbling for the keys under Xabi’s arm, “we’re driving bloody fast, so get back in your seat and don’t for God’s sake touch me, just for a sec. Christ. Where’s your hotel?”

Xabi gives him the direction. It isn’t far, which is a blessing because Stevie’s not totally sure he could avoid crashing into things with Xabi sitting so close to him, his body somehow both tense and languid, his mouth in a soft, promising slant.

Stevie doesn’t wish for things he hasn’t got, generally. He’s not imaginative and he hates a fuss. And he’s not sentimental; not more than the average footballer anyway, a couple of tears in his pint talking about Shankly, a certain amount of where-art-thou-gone-Istanbul melancholy, nothing unusual.

Which is why it’s strange now -- in the tiny radius of their charged silence, as the roar of desire becomes manageable again -- it’s strange how badly he wants Xabi to say, _I missed you_.

He can tell Xabi’s looking at him, can sense it out of the corner of his vision. He narrows his eyes to keep them on the road. The yellow lines tick by under his headlights like comets.

“Is not…Shakespeare, or whatever, you know,” Xabi says, casually, as if Stevie’s spoken aloud. He adjusts his cuffs, the gesture absent and elegant and not masking the nervous twitch of his hands. “That is not what I meant, before. It isn’t that I am killing myself all the time, like Dirk is saying, the tears, or whatever; I don’t expect you to either. I’m happy in Madrid. Not just to say it, but really happy. I hope it’s the same for you.” The last comes out as an afterthought, formal and awkward.

Stevie’s fingers tighten on the wheel. He thinks about saying, _How lovely for you_ or possibly _Stick it up your arse._ Instead he bites the inside of his cheek. At least he’ll get off tonight, that’s a good enough reason to keep driving.

But Xabi’s still talking, restlessly kneading the muscle on top of his thigh. “Just -- I was happy here, too. With you. And sometimes I think of it and it gets -– in my head, I start to make it into -–” He breaks off, makes a small helpless gesture, and lets out a little breath that isn’t quite a laugh. “Sorry. I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

Stevie risks a sideways glance at him. He’s looking down at his interlaced fingers, the familiar lines of his face ghostly and obscure in the dashboard light. His hair is raked-through and untidy at the front, so he looks young. Younger.

“Sorry,” Xabi says again, into his collar. “I don’t know even what I am trying to say, really. Seeing you -- it’s good, that’s all.” He reaches out and traces Stevie’s jaw with his thumb. When he takes Stevie’s earlobe between his fingers, Stevie has to close his eyes for an instant, melting briefly into the touch.

“Yeah, you seem dead chuffed, really,” he says, but he can’t summon any real bitterness.

“Well with me, you know,” Xabi says, wrinkling his forehead, “has to be always some kind of a melodrama.” Stevie can’t help grinning at that, a juvenile shyness softening him.

Then Xabi leans suddenly toward the window to stare back at something and says sharply, “Wait -- the next turn. It’s a, uh, a right.”

“You said the hotel --”

“I know, just -- do me this favor, will you?” Xabi touches his leg again, grazing the inside of his knee. Stevie says, “Fine, fine,” and turns into what looks like a parking lot.

It is a parking lot. Stevie leans over the wheel to look out the windshield and recognizes one of the grammar schools. He’s passed it a couple of times. He blinks at Xabi. “Not trying to find a secluded place to murder me, are you?”

That lopsided smile crinkles Xabi’s face. He nods to the door. “Let’s get out.”

“You’re cracked,” Stevie says, staring at him. “Ten minutes ago you were dying of hypothermia.”

“Yes, probably I will regret this,” Xabi agrees, “come on,” and then he’s pulled on his ludicrous hat, opened the door and hopped out onto the gravel drive, giving a muffled little whoop of cold and clapping his gloved hands together.

“Fuck-ing- _shit_!” he adds as Stevie climbs reluctantly out of his own side. He always sounds sort of proud and embarrassed when he swears in English, like kids do trying out naughty words. He’s laughing, as if astonished. His breath puffs white curls out of the little space between his scarf and his hat.

“Please say there’s fucking like -- pots of gold under this school, or something,” Stevie says, breathless and stupid with cold.

“Something like that,” Xabi says, jigging ridiculously up and down against the chill. “Come on.” He glances around and then ducks through the screen of bushes around the car park.

After a moment Stevie says, “Ah, bollocks,” and follows, sending one longing glance back at his warm, comfortable car.

On the other side of the bushes is a football pitch. It’s a little shabby, the turf kicked up by kids and the white lines faded. It looks lonely and sort of beautiful in the cold winter dark. Fog hangs low around the goalposts and the abandoned cones.

He hears the unmistakable thud of a long kick and turns, instinctively raising his foot to trap the ball beneath it. Xabi’s across the field, a graceful shadow against the clear stars.

“You want a kick-about?” Stevie yells at him.

“More than anything in the world,” Xabi calls back. There’s real joy darkening his voice, and a kind of predatory anticipation too. Steven recognizes it, feels it rising in his own chest: the thrill before a game you know will be good. He bounces the football from foot to foot. He really shouldn’t. He’s got an injury to rest.

“Going to ruin that _lovely_ coat,” he drawls as Xabi gets closer.

“I’ve got others,” Xabi says, shrugging.

It’s a mess. They’re both a little tipsy and their limbs are stiff from cold and even though they’re both wearing trainers, they aren’t the sort of trainers intended for actual athletics. Still, it’s -- there’s no other word for it. It’s so _fun_. They’re laughing and scrabbling and shouldering each other aside, or occasionally just lobbing long passes back and forth for the joy of it. Xabi’s just like he always was, tricky and tough and satisfyingly outraged when Stevie wins the ball from him.

“And it’s Gerrard, big and fuckin hard, crashing through the Spanish defense -- the world champs haven’t a chance against the Liverpool man -- can’t get a touch in,” Stevie pants, neatly tapping the ball through Xabi’s feet and darting around him. “Oh he’s broken away, oh my God, will he score the winner for England -- yes, yes, he’s brilliant, they’ll never catch him, Alonso’s the slowest runner on the planet, he’s like a lumbering -- lumbering great tortoise -- ”

“ _La tuya, hombre_ ,” Xabi yells, his voice threaded with laughter, “go to fuck yourself, okay,” and from behind deftly hooks a foot around the ball, sending Stevie crashing to the frost-hard ground.

Stevie rolls onto his back, groaning, and throws his arms theatrically into the air. “What a vicious, vicious tackle by Alonso! What a disgrace to the beautiful game! Ref, are you blind, will you not card this fucker, it’s a red, it’s a blatant red -- don’t let him get away with it just because he plays for Madrid --”

“Oh, get up will you,” Xabi says, looming over him. “Or I will step on your face.”

“Give him two reds!” Stevie says. He feels lightheaded, like he’s lost five years, like he’s shrugged off some ancient weight. “A whole deck of reds! Send him to jail! Jesus, it's _frigid_ down here, isn’t it.”

Xabi crouches, reaching out a hand. Stevie takes it. Upside-down Xabi’s face is radiant with cold and exertion, a leftover smile lingering like the glow of an ember around his mouth and eyes.

Stevie yanks his arm back, abruptly. With a startled “ _Puta madre!_ ” Xabi goes down, his elbow smacking into Stevie’s diaphragm. The look on his face as he realizes what’s about to happen -- astonished, betrayed, resigned -- is wonderful.

“You are really a son of a bitch, you know that,” Xabi says from the turf, kneeing Stevie none-too-gently in the ribs. “A great footballer, but still. Your leg is okay, yes?” He struggles up to one elbow, scrubs dirt and grass from his hair.

Stevie rolls up onto his knees, drags Xabi to him by the collar and kisses him hard. It’s perfect: how Xabi’s stubble rasps against his jaw, the incredible heat of his mouth and the cold press of his nose against Stevie’s cheekbone. He can feel Xabi’s heart still pounding from the exercise, beating a hard tattoo through their coats. Xabi hums into the kiss, gloved fingers sliding up Stevie’s spine.

“ _Joder_ , Steven,” he says a little huskily when Stevie breaks off. “Good game.”

“Now can we get indoors, please, ” Stevie says, climbing to his feet and hauling Xabi up after. “While I’ve still got bits that haven’t frozen off.”

“Hmm,” Xabi says. He presses the freezing tip of his nose against Stevie’s neck. “Yes.”

Before they go Xabi takes one last quick run at the abandoned ball, setting it up beautifully: back straight, hips low, the sweep of his thigh long and powerful. The kick flies toward the far goal and Xabi raises his arms in premature victory, only to clutch at the back of his head as the ball, treacherously, flies a couple of meters wide and rolls into the bushes.

“ _Cago en la leche_ ,” Xabi says, and spits expressively.

“You’ve got to give up those sixty-yarders,” Stevie says as they climb into the car.

Xabi half-smiles at him. “I can’t.”

“Why? They make you look stupid.”

“Because. What it feels like when they go in --” Xabi says. He shrugs. “Is not something you forget, that’s all.”

Stevie shivers. He gets the ignition going, blinks at the whoosh of the heater.

By the time they get to Xabi’s hotel (posh, hip, discreet little bed and breakfast, gluten-free breakfasts on request and so on, ugh, he would) Stevie’s feeling drunker than he did at the bar. Xabi’s hand is cold under his coat again, guiding him up the stairs. Then Xabi’s fumbling with the keys, pushing the door open.

As Stevie slides in past him Xabi says, conversationally, “I think about it a lot, you know.”

Stevie stops, half-in and half-out, still pressing Xabi full-length against the doorjamb.

“You, fucking me,” Xabi says. He flushes, looking down. “I think about it just -- all the time.”

Stevie goes blank for a moment, his body flooding with hot, fierce light. Then he’s pushing Xabi’s coat off, kicking the door shut, toeing off his shoes. They sway together toward the bed, mouths locked. Xabi’s freezing hands slide under Stevie’s shirt and he yelps, the cold touch pulling him up short. It’s going so fast, it’ll be gone so fast.

He pushes away from Xabi, stumbles backward onto the bed. Xabi looks down at him, panting, disheveled, eyes fevered and dilated.

“I want,” Stevie croaks. The words get stuck in his throat. He grips Xabi’s belt, pulling him in close. The wood-spiced smell of him. “Christ. Just. I want to see you.”

Xabi’s eyes stay on him. Where his collar is unbuttoned a pulse flutters in his throat, uneven, desperate.

Then he’s shrugging out of his shirt, the supple corded muscles of his shoulders and arms flexing. The skin of his chest is pale, dusted with freckles and dark hair. There’s a yellowing bruise just above his hip. He catches his lip between his teeth: the light curves over his cheekbone as he bends his head to unbuckle his belt.

Well, whatever. Maybe Stevie will just never get over this. It’ll just be something he has to live with, like a mole or a stutter. He’ll keep on having his normal life, love his wife and daughters, everything moving along, everything rational and fine. Except that whenever he sees Xabi’s face this pit will yawn open in him. This crippled muscle clenching sluggishly, tenderly, at the bottom of his heart.

He pulls his own shirt over his head and when he emerges Xabi’s naked, standing before him looking solemn and nervous. The seriousness of him makes Stevie laugh, but maybe it shouldn’t because Xabi’s brows draw together, hurt. “What --”

“You’re all right,” Stevie says, more gently. He trails two fingers down Xabi's hip. “It’s just -- it’s good, this, right? You’ve got your tragic face on.”

“Have I?” Xabi says, frowning. He touches his own face absurdly, like it’s a dog that won’t do as it's told.

“You have a bit,” Stevie says. “It’s all right. I don’t mind. Come here, will you?” and Xabi smiles, pushing Stevie down to the bed as he crawls over him. Stevie pushes back and Xabi snatches at his wrists, pins his leg down, grinning into his eyes. His erection presses hard into Stevie's thigh. A feral excitement cranks up in Stevie's bones, thrumming like a motor.

The first time they fucked he'd thought, insanely, that it was less like sex and more like wrestling some big sleek animal, something all coiled, furious power. He'd practically had to knock Xabi unconscious to get him to quieten, but finally he had, those lithe muscles loose as a cat's under Stevie's hands, and it had been -- God. He gets his leg out from under Xabi's and surges upward, cupping Xabi’s face in one hand, biting at his lower lip.

Then there’s a horrible insect buzzing from Xabi’s jeans on the floor. Xabi swears ( _cago_ -ing in the something, Stevie is sure; he’s got to start writing those down) and kisses the side of Stevie’s mouth distractedly. “This fucking...sorry. Ane, she’s had a little bit sick, I’ve got to --”

“No, no, go on,” Stevie says, gesturing toward the floor, and Xabi rolls off to fish through his clothes. “ _¿Qué tal, bonita? Uh, para --_ ” He holds up a hand to Stevie and slips into the bathroom, still visible through the cracked door.

Stevie palms his cock absently, watching him there. It's the power of Xabi’s body that gets him. The solid muscle of his thighs, the sinewed forearms, the curve of his ass. Stevie was surprised, at first, that he could feel this strongly about a man's body. Oh, sure, aesthetically, he could spot a six-pack or whatever, appreciate the work that went into it. But this hunger was new.

In his more introspective moments, which aren't many, Stevie wonders a little about it. Sex with Alex is marvelous but mysterious. She seems pretty satisfied in that area -- he knows she is, because she's more than capable of letting him know when she isn't -- but she never completely loses her self-possession. He loves her so much and he can't ever make her let go.

He thought he might have done it once: he had two fingers inside her and curved them, pushing in hard, and she made a sudden, high-pitched desperate noise and clenched around him, soaking his hand. But afterwards she'd said, a little frown wrinkling her forehead. “I don't know. I don't think I liked it as much, to be honest. At first I was worried I'd had a pee.”

But when Steven's inside him Xabi goes mindless, his eyes wild and lost. When he comes he's torn apart, every muscle of that long supple body trembling. When he comes he's Steven's completely.

In the bathroom now he's murmuring something into the phone, his voice a father’s low soothing hum. Stevie pictures Nagore, scrubbed and beautiful in a pair of Xabi's boxers, her liquid-silk hair falling around her face, holding the phone to Jon's ear.

The light clicks off as he emerges, still talking. “Okay. _Buenas noches, hijo_.” He straightens, murmurs something else. His eyes fall to Stevie's hand, where he’s lazily stroking himself, and a flush stains his face, his neck, the top of his chest. Even in the low light Stevie can see his throat move as he swallows. “Uh. _Perdón, nena, ¿qué?_...oh. Mm-hm, _yo tambien. Ciao, bihotz. Ciao._ ”

He clicks the phone off, drops it onto the pile of clothes. Then wordlessly he's moving over Stevie, grappling him down and pinning his wrists to the bed, shoving a knee between his thighs. The press of him has Stevie dizzy.

Stevie pushes his hips into Xabi’s, nearly biting through his cheek at that lightning friction. He yanks free and flips Xabi hard onto his back. Xabi's gets a fistful of Stevie's hair and pulls, rocketing a shock of painfully sharp pleasure down his spine. In the struggle one fist clips the edge of Stevie's cheekbone. Stevie swears and hits back, instinctively, but Xabi's hand catches his before it strikes; Stevie slams Xabi’s arm up over his head, pushes the other up too and crosses Xabi’s wrists so Xabi is arched taut beneath him, pale throat exposed and bristling, eyes on fire.

He struggles, the muscles in his belly straining, but Stevie's heavier and he's got Xabi's thighs pinned. Xabi makes a furious, pleading sound. His fingers curl.

"Fuck, Xabi," Stevie says desperately. He fumbles for the packet of lube on the nightstand, drips it slickly over his fingers, tugs at his cock. He reaches down to Xabi's ass, spreading him. He’s hot, tight, unbelievable. As Stevie gets a finger into him he breathes out shudderingly through his teeth, a low, keening hiss.

“Hey,” Stevie whispers, “relax -- relax for me.” With his other hand he strokes down the long tense muscle inside Xabi’s thigh, like gentling a horse. He rings Xabi’s cock in his slippery fingers and jerks him, licks into his mouth. Xabi’s tongue and his bared teeth are slick. When Xabi’s started to ease up again Stevie pushes two fingers into him, harder, setting a faster rhythm, curving in and stretching until Xabi’s shaking under him, gasping.

“Dios,” Xabi whispers. He tangles a hand in Stevie’s hair again, the other fisting in the sheets. “Ah, god -- please. Please.”

“What,” Stevie pants, “what do you want, tell me, come on, tell me.”

“Want you,” Xabi says. His breath is ragged and hot against Stevie’s shoulder. “Christ, Steven, fuck me -- _¡Joder!_ \--” and he bucks his hips, eyelids falling shut as Stevie drives his fingers in, twisting. “Yes, fuck, _así_ \-- _¡hostia!_ \-- nnh, just, _dios, dame_ \--” Stevie’s frantic and throbbing for him now, hard enough to hurt: he bends Xabi’s knee back and finally, finally pushes into him, rough and perfect.

The sweet clench and friction of him, the heat, the sweat-damp slide, God. Xabi lets out a fractured, gorgeous little noise, muffled by Stevie’s skin. His teeth scrape over Stevie’s collarbone. He’s beautiful, a dream, an animal, and Stevie is all fire. His vision tightens, bright at the edges. He curls over Xabi’s body to drive harder into him, pulling his head back by the sweat-damp hair, pressing his mouth against the cords of Xabi’s neck and shoulder. It’s not going to last, it can’t. He forces his hips to still, squeezing the base of his cock to slow himself down.

Xabi bites out, “Don’t stop, _puta madre_.” He’s stroking himself, long fingers wet and shining.

“Fuck, look at you.” Xabi’s laid out on the sheets, tension finally slackening out of those long muscles, and his cheeks are flushed and his eyes are so, so dark and his mouth is drugged and open. “Oh, Jesus. I missed -- missed this so much.” He rolls his hips, pushing in hard and slow. Xabi’s head falls back, a groan tearing out of his throat.

He's missed it so much, missed making Xabi come apart like this. The way he sets his teeth, how his lashes tremble. The low ragged sounds he makes, the slurred, desperate tumble of Spanish. Stevie sinks his fingers into the firm muscle of Xabi’s ass, hard enough to bruise.

Another little sob or a snarl falls from Xabi’s mouth, and Stevie hears something like his name.

That’s what pushes him right to the edge. He's panting, trying to hold back, because it’s going to end, but then Xabi makes that sound again, his eyes liquid gold, and pushes his hips up and Stevie feels the wet warmth of Xabi’s come on his belly (and the smell, the thick sharp musk of sex all around them) and he can’t anymore, he can’t, he can't. He slams into Xabi, knocking the bedpost against the wall again and again. The exquisite volcanic pressure builds until it’s too much, and then he presses his mouth to the warm damp curve of Xabi’s throat as he barks and shudders and chokes out Xabi’s name, burying himself deep in that silken heat.

His breath rebounds hot on his own skin. His synapses are electric. Xabi’s hands are smoothing over his back, his neck, his ass. He’s saying something but Stevie doesn’t know what. Tremors course and snap down his nerves, and he kisses Xabi hard to ground himself, one thumb at the hollow of Xabi’s throat. Sweat and come are sticky between them.

The small, needing sound Xabi makes as he starts to pull out would drive him wild all over again if he weren’t so exhausted. He pushes in deep one last time, pressing a lazy kiss to the place just behind Xabi’s ear, winding them both down.

The words Xabi’s saying start to assemble themselves in Stevie’s brain, _Stevie, Jesus, you don’t know what it’s been like, how much I, how bad I’ve wanted --_

“Don’t I, God,” Stevie says. He nuzzles into Xabi’s hair, inhaling the smell there like he could hold it in his lungs somehow, so he could reach for it like a talisman any time he needed. He closes his eyes. Xabi’s breath is slow and shaky.

“Okay,” Xabi’s saying, as if to himself. “Okay, okay, okay.” He reaches up for an instant to cradle Stevie’s face in one hand and Stevie finds himself straining not to turn into that touch, to kiss the rough palm.

Then he hits Stevie’s arm and says, lightly, “Okay, move. I am taking the first shower,” and slips out from under Stevie’s body, leaving Stevie to collapse onto the mattress. Stevie lets a muffled, exhausted groan into the pillows, letting the warm afterglow sluice down his muscles. The water hisses on in the bathroom.

A couple of years ago Stevie would have been gearing up for another go; now the flare of want is overpowered by exhaustion. He feels tired in his bones. He’s cold now too, the ceiling fan raising goosebumps where his sweat hasn’t dried, but he’s not sure he’s got the energy to get under the sheets. He can’t stop thinking ridiculous things, humiliating things.

Maybe he dozes off then, because it seems sudden when Xabi’s damp fragrant heat is prickling against his skin, the mattress bending under the new weight. Xabi’s breath tickles his ear as he says, “Steven.”

“What,” Stevie says half into the pillowcase. He thumbs a little patch of drool from the corner of his mouth. “Napping, aren’t I.”

A breath of laughter. “Yes, you look so peaceful. Like a very large and hairy baby.”

“Fuckoff,” Stevie says. He cracks one eye open. Xabi’s face is close.

“Do you need,” Xabi says. His gaze slides sideways. “When do you need to be home?”

It’s an absurd question, something you’d ask your school girlfriend. It makes Stevie want to kiss Xabi or punch him, or something. “Mm,” he says noncommitally. “She knows I’m out.”

Xabi’s fingers are resting on the nape of Stevie’s neck then, idly combing through his hair. “You can’t stay,” he says.

Stevie raises his eyebrows. “Bit cool, aren't you?”

Xabi laughs, but it’s a tired laugh, and for the first time he really does look older. The lines around his eyes and mouth are worn deep. “It’s selfish. I can’t have you stay. I told you, in my head it’s getting, it’s already --” He shakes his head. “I mean we’re going to, what, cuddle?” It comes out sharp, almost bitter. Xabi seems to notice because he winces and presses his palm flat against the back of Stevie’s skull, like an apology.

“Always some kind of drama,” Stevie says. It’s weak, but it’s what he can manage.

“I know,” Xabi says. He kisses Stevie’s forehead and Stevie wants everything, all at once. “Go and shower, will you?”

When he comes out, towel slung around his neck, Xabi’s curled on the bed over the sheets. He’s dressed, jeans on and even his socks. He’s snoring softly with his mouth just slightly open. His shirt has a picture of an egg on it for whatever reason.

Stevie’s car is just downstairs. It would be easy.

He sends a quick text and waits: pretty soon Alex texts back _haha luv u 2 drunky…sleep it off xx_. He drapes the towel over the back of the chair and crawls into bed. Xabi makes a small, startled sound and says blearily, “Is okay, I’m awake, I just…am just lying down for a minute.”

“Whatever you say,” Stevie says, fluffing up a pillow. “I’m sleeping here. Texted Alex. Got too drunk, crashing on your floor.”

“No,” Xabi says, running an agitated hand through his hair, “I told you, it’s, for me, having you here is --”

“Don’t carry on about it, all right?” Stevie says. He holds Xabi’s jaw for an instant, then kisses him. His toothpaste is kind of starchy and weird, continental probably. He says into Xabi’s mouth, “Take your trousers off, idiot. Can’t be comfortable.”

“Is fine,” Xabi says distractedly. “Look, I --”

“I’ll leave in the morning, shall I,” Stevie says. “Early as you like, but I’m not going back out in this miserable weather. Not going to get any more tragic in eight hours, is it? Go to sleep.”

Xabi rolls onto his belly and mumbles a curse into the pillow. He says, “I thought this would stop, you know. I thought -- I don’t know. That I would be better by now, that we could -- I didn’t come here to do all this again, is all.”

Stevie watches him for a minute, his face smushed into the pillowcase, his rumpled hair. He thinks about asking what Xabi means by _all this._

Instead he pushes the back of Xabi’s t-shirt up and runs a steady hand down the smooth notches of his spine, then back up again, like he does for the girls when they can’t sleep.

“Shut up,” he says. “Hush.”

They fall asleep like that, Xabi’s jeans rucked down and kicked to the end of the bed, his skin warming Stevie’s fingers.

*

Stevie stretches a hand out of a strange dream (he’s in a forest which is also by the sea and he wants to show someone the tide coming in around the trees, but Pepe is perched in the branches throwing bottles and chewed gum and shit at him) and his fingers brush warm skin over firm, eased muscle. He opens his eyes.

The bed is impossibly soft and warm in the way that makes it seem even colder outside. Next to him Xabi is sprawled without dignity, his mouth slightly open, one arm folded and his fingers curved delicately against his chest. The solid expanse of him, his pale skin and the sheet bunched low around his hips, is lovely. For a while Stevie is content just to blink slowly at him. Maybe there’s something sort of -- off-putting about this, lying here watching somebody sleep. There it is anyway, though. He remembers the first time he woke up with Alex. The softness of her mouth, the small gold hairs on her arms.

Under the sheets he can tell that Xabi is half-hard in a lazy, morning way. Without really thinking too much about it Stevie pushes the linens down, studies him for a moment, almost objectively. He never really -- well, they always had patterns. He used to wonder if it was some leftover strain of pride, some idiotic notion about what sort of man he was. The sort who had his cock sucked, but never the other way round. As if somehow that were less...whatever. As if he wanted to pretend Xabi wasn’t what he was: as if he would have wanted him to be anyone else.

He ghosts his hand for a moment over Xabi’s stomach, the low vee of his pelvic muscle, and then he moves down.

When he kisses the hollow of Xabi’s hip Xabi lets out a low, warm, pleased sound. Then Stevie gets his mouth around him, awkwardly, and Xabi gasps into a stuttering arch beneath him. The feeling of the blood in Xabi’s veins drumming, of his sudden hardening against Stevie’s tongue, is strange but it’s -- but it’s good, like the musky familiar heat of him is good, like Xabi is good.

“Steven,” Xabi chokes out. Steven looks up at him: at his dazed, wondering eyes, still hazy and dilated with sleep, his soft half-open mouth. As their eyes meet Xabi makes a shattered noise. His fingers brush hesitantly against Stevie’s temple: Stevie grabs his wrist and presses Xabi’s hand into his hair. That gets a reaction. Xabi’s fist clenches against his scalp, pushing Stevie deeper, and his hips buck up so that Stevie gags a little, and the ragged _Ahh!_ that tears out of Xabi’s throat makes Stevie’s own cock throb painfully against the mattress. He runs a hand lower, cupping Xabi’s balls in his palm, and rolls their hot weight curiously.

Xabi isn’t even making words. The only sounds in the close gray morning are the harsh uneven breaths he’s dragging in through his nose, the mesmerizing scrape of his short nails over Stevie’s skull, and the wet obscene noises from Stevie’s own mouth, which are shocking and arousing all at once. The power he has over Xabi now, the way he can make Xabi feel. The tough sinews of Xabi’s thigh tremble under Stevie’s hand. He surges deeper, as far as he can, until he feels the sick hitch as Xabi hits the back of his throat.

Xabi _keens_ , wrenches against him almost painfully. “ _Dios, tu boca_ , Stevie, fuck, fuck -- _joder,_ ahh, _me voy a_ \--” and Stevie knows that one, would know it in any language from the desperation that edges Xabi’s voice like a razor. He doesn’t stop. He digs his fingers into Xabi’s hips, pins him down as he flexes and shakes. Then with a hoarse cry Xabi is shuddering into his mouth. Wet warmth on his tongue. He coughs on it a little and feels a trace drip over his lip and chin, an awkward overflow.

He pushes up on one arm, wipes his mouth, coughs reflexively again. In his mouth is a thick bitterness. It doesn’t taste good but it doesn’t taste bad either. There’s a forest-floor quality, a sultriness. It tastes like Xabi.

Xabi is staring up at him, panting hot and shallow. His face is raw and amazed. He murmurs something in Spanish and reaches out to thumb Stevie’s lower lip, slowly, dragging it down a little. He lets the pad of his thumb rest there, pressed to Stevie’s mouth. “ _Puta madre_ ,” he says. He sounds half-stunned. “God. God.”

Stevie says, “Morning,” and his voice is hoarse with -- his voice is hoarse, throaty, strange. His lip moves against Xabi’s thumb.

“Shit, Steven,” Xabi says, and Stevie grins at that: then Xabi arches up and kisses him, his thumb still resting between them, the hot wet curl of his tongue deep in Stevie’s mouth, all rough jaw and morning breath, perfect.

Then Xabi falls back on the bed, a blissed-out relaxation in the lines of him that Stevie isn’t sure he’s ever seen there before. His mouth is curled into that lovely, smug, one-sided smile. He folds his arms behind his head.

“Oi,” Stevie says, flicking his ear. “Wake up. Excuse you.”

“Mmm,” Xabi says meaninglessly. Then with one arm he tugs Stevie down to him again, reaches down between their bodies. The friction of his touch sets a slam of white-hot pleasure singing through Stevie’s body, a sweet urgent ache. Xabi buries his head in the crook of Stevie’s neck and his lashes brush against Stevie’s throat. His breath races hotly across Stevie’s collarbone.

When Stevie comes Xabi kisses his mouth fiercely, swallowing the words.

*

They get breakfast in a quiet place with walls the acid green of apple candy. The fat, good-looking man behind the counter grins so wide it looks like his face is going to split, shakes hands with them both many, many times, and promises no one will bother them, that he will make sure that no one bothers them.

“When you coming back then, mate?” he asks Xabi jovially. “We could use you, eh?”

Xabi laughs, not looking up from the paper placemat he’s signing for the guy’s kid. He says, “Well, I am back now, anyway.”

Xabi orders toast and coffee and Stevie gets scrambled eggs, but what arrives at their table are two full English, possibly the most enormous Stevie’s ever seen. Giant quantities of bacon, a famine’s worth of potatoes, eggs silky with butter. Xabi looks slightly horrified.

“Does he think anybody can eat all of this?” he whispers, skewering one of his four sausages and holding it contemplatively in the air.

“Got to, lad,” Stevie says through a mouthful of beans and egg. “Can’t offend the man.”

They don’t talk much after that. Under the table their feet bump, and Xabi’s knee pushes against Stevie’s thigh. Stevie imagines he can feel Xabi’s heartbeat steadying him, through the small warm places where their bodies touch.

*

Xabi’s flight leaves at noon. He’s got a taxi coming at nine-thirty, which gives them an hour. By unspoken mutual agreement they end up back at the field behind the grammar school. In the clear razor-sharp light of the winter morning it looks derelict and mundane and earthly. They pass back and forth for a little while, easy, not trying much of anything special.

“I miss this,” Stevie says after a while. He traps the ball under his foot. It’s not what he means.

“I know,” Xabi says. He smiles crookedly. After a moment Stevie smiles back, but it's hard.

Xabi crosses to him, kneels at his feet to pick up the ball. He curls one hand around the back of Stevie’s calf. Stevie looks down at the top of his hair, soft and thick and threaded with gold. 

“Fuck this,” Stevie says, “just fuck it. Everything, really.”

Xabi rests his forehead for an instant against Stevie’s knee and exhales. There’s something clumsy and tender in the gesture that makes Stevie stupid with feeling, wrung out and helpless with it. He crouches down to the chilled, scrubby grass so they can see each other.

Xabi pushes his shoulder lightly. He says, “I am expecting tears, by the way. Fucking -- floods of them. Every day, on Pepe’s little shrine.”

Stevie laughs helplessly. Then he’s hugging Xabi in close, just holding him there, face pressed to Xabi’s neck, his fingers laced in Xabi’s hair. The football rolls awkwardly between them. Xabi’s hand tenses against his shoulderblade for a moment.

Then he relaxes. His arms slide tighter around Stevie’s back. He’s warm.

“Some other time,” Xabi says, voice stirring the hair just behind Stevie’s ear. “Another time, you know?” but Stevie thinks maybe _time_ isn’t the word he means.

Stevie doesn’t push it, though. He says quietly, “Yeah.” And Xabi sinks forward on his knees, lets out a long, soft breath.


End file.
